“He fumbles at your spiritAs players at the keysBefore they drop full music on;He stuns you by degrees.Prepares your brittle substanceFor the ethereal blowby fainter hammers, further heard,Then nearer, then so slowYour breath has time to straightenYour brain to bubble cool,-Deals one imperial thunderboltThat scalps your naked soul.”

“You are playing cards with three Jeffs. One is your father, one is yourbrother, and the other is your current boyfriend. All of them have seenyou naked and heard you talking in your sleep. Your boyfriend Jeff getsup to answer the phone. To them he is a mirror, but to you he is a room.”

“You can cuss out colonialism, imperialism, and all other kinds of ism, but it's hard for you to cuss that dollarism. When they drop those dollars on you, your soul goes.”

“He is your friend who pushes you nearer to God.”

“Your own love story? Your paramour may have had lovers before you. But no one has ever loved him the way you do. No one has ever heard music. Not the way you hear it. The songs are beautiful vampires, asleep in your iPod, coming alive at night, aglow. You can have them on your hours, yours to conduct. Music shapes us and we shape it.”

“The music glides between the pores of your skin to bubble through your veins in place of blood, and you can't help but clutch the mic with both trembling hands and let the song flow out of you like blood from a wound. In those moments, when the music has replaced everything and even awareness of your own body has faded, you can't breathe, can't do anything but let the song own you, let the performance rocket through you. There's no people, no problems in your life, no buzz of alcohol in your blood or pain in your heart.”